First and Dust
by katie-elise
Summary: The first time they kiss it isn't really, in all technicality, a 'kiss'.
1. First and Dust

_A/N: I'm jumping fandoms on you guys again. ~shifty eyes~ I was actually going to post this on AO3, but apparently you need, like, an INVITE. From a person who already HAS an account. And I don't know those people (at least not well enough to ask!). SO HERE YOU GO. _

_This is my first foray into the Teen Wolf fandom, which has eaten my life. I've see a lot of fic where Derek and Stiles' first kiss is angry, violent, etc., and I just wanted to take that in a different direction and see if it worked. I like it, so I hope you do, too.  
_

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The first time they kiss it isn't really, in all technicality, a 'kiss'. Well, that is to say, it _feels_ like a kiss to Stiles, but he knows that the general population would probably disagree. Not that he's exactly shouting it from the roof tops for their benefit, that's a little too PDA, really, for Stiles. He likes to think of himself as more of a _refined_ kisser. A gentleman, one who does not 'kiss and tell', as it were. But what Stiles likes to think about himself and what he knows about himself are all too often a set of parallel lines, occasionally glancing over at each other but never actually taking the time to intersect.

Because the fact of the matter is, Stiles is most definitely not a refined kisser.

He knows this, because when Derek is done terrifying an ACTUAL REAL-LIFE wolf (what the fuck, California. What. The. Actual. Fuck.) into submission and running it off, he grabs Stiles by the wrist and _tugs, _practically dragging him back to the car. Stiles expects his fury; knows that he deserves it because how many times have how many people told him not to go into the woods alone? Seriously, this is entirely his fault, and yeah he's scraped up and bleeding and kind of terrified, but he does know that he deserves Derek being harsh with him. He _deserves_ a good telling off, and so he braces himself against the door of the Jeep and shimmies down deeper into his hoodie, like the extra fabric will offer some protection from what's to come.

It's dark, and Stiles feels more than sees Derek looming over him, can feel the way his body is shaking from where he still has a tight grasp on Stiles' wrist. He hears Derek take a deep breath, and his body tenses automatically, steeling itself for the inevitable onslaught. Derek's grip softens and Stiles prepares himself for an enthusiastic introduction of his spine to his Jeep, a 'hi, nice to meet you' punctuated by a _crunch_, but instead of letting go to punch him full in the face for his idiocy (which, frankly, is what Stiles would do in Derek's position), Derek's fingers start to rub gently back and forth across his wrist. Stiles swallows hard and waits for the blow that never comes.

Instead Derek's fingers lightly slip under the sleeve of his hoodie, thumb making soothing circles as it goes, and the sensation is strange, a kind of gritty-thick-smooth through the blood and dirt. Stiles can still feel him shaking, can still hear him breathing heavily in and out, in and out, and the wild thought occurs to him that maybe Derek isn't working up to kill him, but rather attempting to calm himself down. It's a strange thought, entirely at odds with everything that Stiles knows about Derek, but in that moment he chooses to think that he's right.

And since Stiles is so good at compartmentalizing knowledge and thought as two separate but equal entities, he runs with it. He forces his body to unstiffen, shoulders relaxing down, knees adopting a slight bend, breath evening out. He can immediately feel a corresponding reaction in Derek's body, and that's how much tension he was giving off, Stiles could actually _feel_ it in the air, in the sound of his breathing, in the quivering molecules that separate them.

Gently, gently, Stiles thinks, no sudden movements. Derek's hand is still clasped loosely around his wrist, so Stiles slowly turns his hand over and grasps Derek's wrist in return, replicating the small soothing motions of his fingers. Stiles congratulates himself on a job well done, way to not spook the werewolf, Stilinski, when suddenly Derek's hand is letting go, moving away, and Stiles thinks that, shit, he's overdone it, but Derek slides his hand up Stile's arm, and around his back, and his other arm is following suit and then all the molecules in between are rushing out, being forced out, like they never wanted to be there anyway, were never meant to be there in the first place, and Derek is pressing Stiles to him, pulling him in like he never wants to let go, arms wrapped protectively around his back and he lets out a huge, shuddering sigh and pulls Stiles closer, clinging to him, like he's reassuring himself. Like he needs this.

And Stiles reciprocates, maybe never realized how much he needs this too, needs to _hold_ someone, to clutch them and make sure they're solid, real, not so much ephemeral dust and ashes spread over a mountain range, a lake, in an urn over the mantle. And maybe there's a tear, maybe there are a few tears, and Derek must smell them, smell the salt water and the bitterness, because Stiles doesn't make any noise; he learned a long time ago how to cry in silence.

The tears slide down, stinging against where stones and debris tore his skin, and Derek pulls back, just enough to slide in and press soft, dry lips to Stiles' cheek, to the crook of his jaw, to the very corner of his mouth where the tears have settled into the skin, and Stiles shudders, gasps, because suddenly this isn't about comfort, this isn't about grief, this is about an entirely new feeling and he's shaking all over, and Derek is shaking, too, and his mouth is still lingering at the edge of Stiles' own, not wanting to go but reticent to take it further.

And Stiles knows, just _knows,_ at that moment, what kind of a kisser he will be, that he will not be refined, because he can feel himself coming apart in Derek's arms, can feel himself drowning and burning and it's not even a kiss, not really, but he can barely control himself and he presses back, presses into where Derek is and they're not kissing but they want to be, and the molecules in the way shudder.

But Stiles is bleeding, and crying, and so they let the air rush back between their bodies, get in the Jeep, and try not to feel the press of so much distance, so many particles of dust and air and want and grief, and Stiles rolls down the window so that the world will stop smelling of tears. And quite miraculously, as Derek reaches over, eyes still straight ahead, and rests his hand ever so lightly right above Stile's knee, it does.

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_A/N: I will in all likelihood be continuing this, because I love the slow burn. Also this ended up kinda angsty and we can't end on that note now, can we?_


	2. Again with Feeling

_A/N: So I have no idea if you guys liked this or not, because I only got two (2!) reviews (although they were both lovely! 3 ), and reviews are what tell me more than anything else that you like it. And while I'll write what I like no matter what, I want to know if I'm getting at what other people want, too._

_Anyway, here's the next chapter (there should be one more after this). It takes a turn for the angsty but also gets fluffy there at the end. Enjoy!_

Again, with Feeling

Sometimes, Stiles feels like a bad son when he talks about his mom without his voice shaking. He still misses her, _God_ does he miss her, but time has changed the pain from something oppressing and constant to something that hits him less often but more abruptly, usually at the most inappropriate times. He doesn't feel grief when her birthday rolls around, doesn't feel it on the anniversary of her death, only feels a strange emptiness. Like he should be feeling something, and he's guilty that he doesn't.

But then he'll look out the window on a cold night, full moon (_scott/derek/jackson/issac/erica_), freshly fallen snow, and the world looks like someone dumped a bucketful of pure white glitter over the dark grey world, and suddenly he's curled on his side on his bedroom floor, body wracked with sobs, crying so hard that the only noise is the dry, scratchy whine of his throat as he screams into the night. Sometimes, after he's worn himself out and shaking, he'll quietly slip into his dad's bedroom. He'll sit in the old wicker-seated chair that his mom used to sit in to put on her nylons, and he'll reach over and lay his hand on the coverlet next to his dad's, not touching but close enough to take some comfort from the lessening of the space between them. Sometimes he falls asleep there, and wakes up to the smell of pancakes and bacon cooking from downstairs, and sometimes he makes it back to his own room and sleeps like you only can when you've cried all of the grief out and there's nothing left to give.

Tonight is one of the nights when he makes it back to his room. He lays on top of the covers, brain overworked, confused, and above all exhausted. That's probably why he thinks of it, thinks of Derek and how he's lost so much more than Stiles, not just his mom but his entire family. His entire world. And not just in one fell swoop, but in a slow, agonizing progression, in which for a time he had his sister to cling to and to share the burden of his grief. His sister who was then torn away from him in violence, blood, and gore. Stiles' can't even begin to comprehend that, imagines that it must have felt like what Stiles imagines losing his dad would be like at this point. He's pretty sure he wouldn't survive it, and he has the thought that maybe he doesn't give Derek enough credit.

Derek, who defended Stiles from the wolf, who didn't punch him, who held him like he never wanted to let go, who _kissed_ him. Because Stiles has conducted a variety of scientific experiments, primarily consisting of heat flushing his body at the memory of Derek pressing his lips so close to Stiles', their bodies slotted perfectly together, the tangible taste of _want_ in the air, and all that evidence points more heavily towards 'kiss' than it does 'platonic bro hug w/ some lips on the face here and there'.

Stiles wants to kiss him again. This time with feeling. Like, the feeling of Derek's lips _on_ his lips.

But, and this _has_ to be the grief and the crying and the fact that he's going to have to hold a cold spoon to his eyes in the morning so no one will see the puffy evidence, but…more than a hot and heavy kiss, more than anything Stiles just wants to hold Derek. Wants him to be here, now, wants to lay him down in bed and curl around him and touch his face with gentle fingers, memorize the exact angle of his nose, the texture of his eyelashes, and that _has _to be the grief talking because he's had enough daydreams about that almost kiss to know that there's a lot more he wants to do with Derek.

Stiles tries to sleep, he really does, but soon enough the world is starting to glow a little brighter through his window shades. He drags himself up and out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor, and peers outside. The snow is still fresh on the ground, hasn't been trampled or greyed with engine exhaust, but without the moonlight it doesn't sparkle and he's going to be okay.

It's barely even dawn, but Stiles knows he can't go back to sleep. Now that he's up he can barely sit still, he needs to move, needs to get some distance between himself and the memories that come from creaking floorboards and the women's size 9 hiking boots sitting in the back of the closet.

He decides that he'll only walk along the _edge _of the woods this time. No one's ever told him not to do that. At least not specifically.

So he tugs on some jeans over his pajama pants, throws on a hoodie and a coat for good measure, slips into his boots, leaves a note for his dad about going to Scott's, since that's probably where he'll end up anyway, and heads out. It immediately becomes apparent that he should have worn gloves, but he sticks his hands in his pockets and soldiers on.

He's barely a quarter mile down the street when he looks up and sees a dark figure sitting on one of the benches just outside the park, under a maple tree covered in snow instead of leaves. Stiles knows instantly that it's Derek, and takes a moment to reflect on the fact that he can recognize him just by the way he slouches, long legs splayed out in front of him when he sits. Derek looks up, has to have known he was coming, and they stare at each other for a minute before Stiles snaps out of it and walks over to sit next to him.

The bench is cold even through his layers and Stiles shudders, tries to fold in on himself for warmth.

The sit like that, in the silence just before dawn, and the night starts to become a distant memory.

"I could smell you", Derek says, and although it's quiet, almost a whisper, Stiles is temporarily shocked by the invasion of noise into the stillness. Not just noise, he realizes, but words.

"Can't you always smell me?", he asks, but he knows what Derek means. Knows that he must have been able to smell his grief, his terror at the thought of never seeing his mom again. And since when has Derek been able to smell him from such a distance anyways?

"I could hear you, too, when I got closer".

Stiles blushes. He tries not to let anyone know, tries not to burden them because it's not their fault if sometimes he feels like he's falling apart at the seams. He'll go to Scott, on occasion, but although Scott wants to help him he just doesn't know how, and it often leaves Stiles feeling lonelier than when he started.

He stares at his hands, cold and aching in his lap, and he doesn't want to look at Derek but he can feel Derek looking at him. Not judging, not worried, just accepting. Understanding. So he lifts his head and smiles tentatively at Derek, and Derek smiles back and _God_ but they're close together. Stiles can feel the press of Derek's thigh against his, can feel his heat even through at least three layers.

The smile slowly drops off of Derek's face, and _that's bad_ Stiles thinks, he wants Derek to smile, wants to be the cause of that smile, but Derek's hand is sliding beneath his hood, thumb brushing over his ear as it passes and the only thing Stiles can hear is the sound of his own breath quickening and he knows that Derek can hear it to, which makes his breath come even faster. His pulse is pounding and Derek freaking Hale is cupping the back of his head and pulling him closer, pulling him in so that their noses brush, hit, and come to rest beside each other.

Their mouths are both just a little bit open, and Stiles can feel Derek's breath, breathes him in and breathes into him, and he has to swallow, _hard_, and then he licks his lips because hey, that's what you do after you swallow, it's not his fault, but his tongue brushes across not only his own lips but Derek's, too, and his hand is pressing down on Derek's thigh so he can feel it when Derek's entire body jumps.

Derek shudders out a breath, collects himself, and then slowly, slowly tilts his head and inches closer, until his lips are brushing over Stiles' and oh shit oh shit oh shit, and then Derek's lips are entirely covering his and it's surprisingly soft, unsurprisingly warm, just a little wet, and the most amazing thing Stiles has ever felt ever in his entire life including that one time Lydia laid on his leg. Derek brushes his tongue over Stiles' lips and Stiles breathes in sharply through his nose, all coherence fleeing and he kisses back, just a bit, testing the waters.

They pull apart, and Derek is smiling again, so close that Stiles can see every little fleck of color in his eyes. He wonders if his eyelashes are as soft as they look. But that can wait, because Stiles still had the night from hell, and his body decides that this is the moment to shut down. This is the moment that he feels safe enough to shut down. He is officially calling his body out on being a traitor, and it's possible that he whispers something about Benedict Arnold because he can feel Derek laugh.

A gigantic yawn steals across his face, and Stiles can hear his jaw crack. He glances back at Derek through eyes that are refusing to focus anymore, and Derek is still smiling. It's softer, gentler, but it's still a smile, so Stiles rests his head on Derek's shoulder, lets Derek wrap and arm around his shoulders, and starts to drift off.

Then suddenly he remembers, his head jerks up an inch, and oh my gosh, "School!", and it comes out pretty garbled, but Derek must understand because he feels him push his head back down and feels Derek's breath ghost over his ear as he whispers, "Stiles, it's Saturday".

And if that isn't the best news he's heard all week, he doesn't know what is. He snuggles closer to Derek and finally lets sleep take him.

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_A/N: So this chapter actually made me really emotional to write. I'm gonna go make a big pot of chamomile tea and bury myself in Game of Thrones. See you lovelies later! (and let me know if you liked it!)_

_p.s. the title is something my orchestra director used to tell us constantly, hahaha. Also sometimes in music there'll be a notation under the notes that just says 'with feeling', which I always thought was kind of self-evident.  
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